Wealthy Australian, Secret Son

by Margaret Way

  “Wasn’t Martyn nice enough to marry?”

  “Martyn’s dead.” She veiled her eyes.

  “Well, his death is one less cross for you to bear,” he pointed out rather callously. “I’m sorry Martyn had to die so young, Charlotte. Once we were friends, until he turned on me with a vengeance. Anything to protect himself. He really was gutless. We both know he had a foolhardy streak that was always going to get him and sadly other people into trouble. You could have divorced him.”

  “Then I really would have been in trouble.” She reacted with an involuntary shudder.

  He sat forward, staring at her in consternation. “What is that supposed to mean?” His eyes blazed.

  She didn’t answer. She had said too much already. Did anyone get through life unscathed? Women particularly? Vulnerable women with children to protect?

  “Were you afraid of Martyn? What he might do?”

  She shook her head.

  “If you ever try to leave me, I’ll kill you and the boy.”

  Martyn’s final words to her had played over and over in her head. By now they were driven deep into her psyche. “I must go, Rohan,” she pleaded. “There are things I have to do at home.”

  “You’re going to have to talk to me some time.” He rose to his splendid height, extracting a couple of notes from his wallet.

  She stood up more slowly. “There are some things you don’t need to hear, Rohan.”

  His steely determination—the determination that had turned him at under thirty into a multimillionaire—was well in evidence. “That, Charlotte, is an answer I don’t accept.”

  Life for Charlotte had become an endless series of hurdles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOMEONE on Rohan’s staff was to pick her up at ten to seven. Drinks in the library. Dinner in the formal dining room. Diane Rodgers was handling the catering. Diane Rodgers would be sitting down to dinner. Swanning around Charlotte’s former home.

  “Why are you doing this?” her father asked, for the umpteenth time.

  It wasn’t as though she had a choice. “Rohan insisted.”

  “And you jumped?”

  “Only some of the time.” She had no protection from Rohan. “You look beautiful, Mummy.” Christopher caught his mother’s fingers. He didn’t like it when Grandpa had words with his mother. “I love it when you let your hair down.” He looked up admiringly at his mother’s thick golden hair. He was used to seeing her hair tied back, but tonight it fell in lovely big waves around her face and over her shoulders. “I love the dress too,” he enthused. “I’ve never seen it before.” It was a long dress of some shiny material. It deepened the colour of his mother’s green eyes and made her lovely skin glow. “You love everything about your mother,” Vivian Marsdon said with an indulgent smile. He too loved seeing his daughter looking her best. As a boy, like Christopher, he had taken great pleasure in seeing his own mother dress up for an occasion. “You do look beautiful, Charlotte.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Why don’t you wear your grandmother’s emeralds?”

  “Goodness me, Dad, I don’t want to overdo it!” she exclaimed. Her mother had taken the beautiful jewellery her husband had given her, but Grandma Marsdon’s jewellery was off-limits. It was to remain in the family. “Well, I want you to,” Vivian Marsdon decided. “Damned strangers swanning around in our house.” Eerily, he echoed her thoughts.

  “You swore, Grandpa,” Christopher turned to look at his grandfather. “You know the rules. Swearing isn’t allowed.” He figured it was time to get one back at Grandpa.

  “I’m sorry, son,” Vivian apologised. “I’m a bit upset. I’ll take the emeralds from the safe, Charlotte. I’d like you to wear them. Keep the flag flying, if you like. I’m sure the other women will be wearing their best jewellery.”

  “Probably, Dad,” she conceded. “But it might be a mite hard to top Gran’s emeralds.”

  “Well, you have the beauty and the style,” he said, already moving off to his study, where the safe was installed. “Besides, they’ll go perfectly with that dress. Green is your colour.”

  Rohan, looking devastatingly handsome in black tie, greeted her at the door. “Ah, Charlotte! You look a vision of beauty!”

  She brought herself quickly under control. It wasn’t easy when she was on an emotional see-saw. Fear. Elation. She couldn’t get over having Rohan back in her life. It was like some impossible dream. Her love for him had never lost its intensity, even through the unhappy years of her marriage. She had given up the love of her life for Martyn, whose actions had determined the course of all three of their lives. She rarely let her mind travel back to Martyn’s unwitting part in Mattie’s tragedy. She had never, ever upbraided Martyn for it. Only for his part in denouncing Rohan to anyone who would listen. Martyn hadn’t been a strong character. He had known that and suffered for it.

  Now Rohan’s brilliant eyes glittered over her and touched on the emeralds, no more dazzling than her eyes. He bent his dark head to brush her cheek. Her heart turned over. The clean male scent of him! He took the opportunity to murmur in her ear. “Ah, the famous Marsdon emeralds. They look glorious! But no more than you!”

  “Why, thank you, Rohan.” She had become fairly adept at pretending cool composure. “That’s what Dad was hoping for. ‘Fly the flag’ were his exact words.”

  “And how triumphantly it’s unfurled! Come on in.” He took her hand, his long fingers curling around hers. Electricity shot up her arm, branched away into her throat, her breast, travelled to the sensitive delta of her body. She felt the impact of skin on skin at every level. “Meet my guests,” he was saying smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll like them, and they you. Still think losing Riverbend is tragic?” His downbent head pinned her gaze.

  “Not any more. I only wanted it for Christopher anyway.”

  “Then your prayers have been answered,” he returned sardonically.

  Diane Rodgers had marked their entry. Immediately she was seized by a jealousy so powerful it was a wonder she didn’t moan aloud. She felt so completely engulfed by it, it was like drowning in mortal sin. If there was such a thing. They looked perfect together. Stunning foils for each other. Charlotte Prescott looked beyond glamorous—and looking glamorous was her own crowning achievement. Up until now she had thought she looked terrific in her short mesh and sequin dress. Hell, she did look terrific. But Mrs Prescott looked fabulous—a walking, breathing, real-live beautiful woman. The long dress, clinging and dipping in all the right places, put her in mind of the emerald silk number Keira Knightley had worn in the movie Atonement. If that weren’t enough, a magnificent diamond and emerald necklace was strung around her neck like a glittering tie, caught by a big dazzling emerald clasp of God knew how many carats. The full length of the separate strands dipped into her creamy cleavage.

  Hell!

  Diane looked furtively about her. She had an idea she might have exclaimed aloud.

  She couldn’t have. No one responded. Not that they were looking in her direction. They were staring at the beauty on Rohan’s arm. One thing offered a grain of consolation. Mrs Prescott’s late husband—a bit of a playboy, she’d heard—had been having an affair at the time of his fatal accident. A young woman had been with him in his luxury Maserati. The miracle was she hadn’t joined her boyfriend. So the beauteous Mrs Prescott hadn’t been able to hang on to her husband! She had lost him. Diane half believed that gave her hope.

  The only other times she had seen Charlotte Marsdon, her long hair had been confined. Now it billowed away from her face, revealing matching diamond and emerald earrings. Who the hell could compete with that? It was utterly demoralising. Her mood turned from super-confident to darkly brooding.

  “Geez, isn’t she fan-taas-tic!” Sam Bailey turned his smooth brown head to give her a cat-like grin.

  Diane Rodgers was tempted to crack him on the nose; instead she met his look head-on. “Gorgeous!” she agreed, feeling as if she was under siege.

  She had
never much liked Sam Bailey. Now she hated him and his playful little taunts. At least she thought they were playful. She’d been certain she’d been keeping her wild infatuation with the dead sexy Rohan under wraps. Apparently not. Rohan Costello had got right under her skin at first sight, and she prided herself on her street cool. Were they all laughing at her? God, that would be catastrophic! She couldn’t ask Sam—he was making a bee-line for his boss and the exquisite Mrs Prescott. What a hell of a pity the husband was dead. But playboys given to driving fast cars sadly tended to die young.

  Diane had done an impressive job of handling the arrangements. Charlotte awarded her top marks. If she hadn’t exactly done things herself, then she had the knack of gathering together the right people. The flower arrangements in the entrance hall and the main reception rooms were stunning. A quartet of sumptuous yellow roses, their lovely full heads massed in crystal bowls, were set at intervals along the dining table. She had never seen the impressive gold and white dinner set before, but she recognised Versace. The dinner plates were flanked by sterling silver flatware. Georgian silver candlesticks marched apace. Trios of exquisite crystal wine glasses were set at the head of the dinner plates.

  Food and drink turned out to be superb, as did the efficient and unobtrusive service from two good-looking, nattily uniformed young waiters. Perfectly moulded smoked salmon and prawn timbales topped with a slice of cucumber and a sprig of coriander for starters; a choice of beef fillet with wild mushrooms and a mushroom vinaigrette or chicken with peaches and vanilla; crêpes with walnut cream and butterscotch sauce or chocolate cherry liqueur cake. It was a truly elegant and satisfying feast.

  Conversation flowed easily, ranging over a number of interesting and entertaining topics—all non-divisive. Charlotte found it much easier than she had anticipated. She had never been to Riverbend as a guest. Rohan presided at the head of the table, she to his right. The guest of honour. She wondered what they all thought. Curiously, she felt relaxed—even with Diane Rodgers shooting her many a burning look of appraisal that bit hostile.

  She had attended countless dinner parties over the years, but she found herself enjoying Rohan’s quick-witted and amusing guests more than most. It was obvious they thought the world of him. Their friend as well as their boss. They were all of an age. Three of the young men and two of the very attractive young women, not including Diane Rodgers, worked for Rohan. Two of the young men were computer whiz kids and had brought their girlfriends along.

  Rohan’s guests knew better than to start asking leading questions. Except for Diane who, over coffee and liqueurs in the Drawing Room, decided it was high time to throw the cat among the pigeons. For starters there was the enthralling subject of their shared childhood. Charlotte’s and Rohan’s.

  “I bet Rohan was an A-grade student,” she said, setting down her exquisite little coffee cup so she could lap up the answer.

  Charlotte smiled, wondering where this was going. “The cleverest boy in the Valley,” she said, without looking at Rohan. “We all knew he was going to make a huge success of himself.”

  “Whereas you settled for being a wife and mother?” Diane said, her voice full of womanly understanding. “Possibly the best job of all. You must have been very young when you had your gorgeous little boy. He’s—what? Seven?”

  “Yes, he is. And he is beautiful,” Charlotte agreed, hoping Diane would stop. Rohan might look perfectly at ease, lounging back in his armchair, but she knew him so well she could sense a growing turbulence.

  “You married another one of your childhood friends— Martyn Prescott, I believe?” Diane pressed on where angels would fear to tread. “Isn’t that right? What were you called again? The Gang of Four?”

  Charlotte’s heart plunged. She was certain Diane Rodgers had talked to Nicole Prescott. “The Pack of Four, Diane. But I think you already knew that.”

  Rohan broke in crisply. “I’m sure Charlotte doesn’t want to continue the interrogation, Diane. But I’m rather interested to know who told you about the Pack of Four.”

  Diane’s colour deepened. “Gosh, I can’t remember,” she said, with an innocent blink of her heavily made up dark eyes. “I thought it was a lovely story, anyway. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Charlotte. I just wasn’t thinking.” Her voice dripped apology.

  “That’s quite all right, Diane.” Charlotte maintained her cool calm. Maybe Diane was on the level? Anything was possible. “I lost my husband eighteen months ago,” she told the table. They murmured their sympathy, all of them embarrassed by Diane’s insensitivity. At least three of the guests could have told Charlotte that Diane Rodgers could be obnoxious.

  “Sorry. So sorry.” Diane pressed a hand to her mouth, then thought she had nothing to lose. “I know you’ve had more than your fair share of tragedy.”

  Down the table, Sam Bailey rolled his eyes. “Is that silly bitch into annihilation? If she doesn’t shut her mouth soon she could just find herself out of a well-paid job,” he muttered to his girlfriend, who was in total agreement. They all knew Diane Rodgers was highly effective—she was devoted to their boss and very capable—but the dumbest person on the planet could diagnose an attack of monster jealousy when they saw it.

  Some time later, Charlotte took her place at the piano—to delighted applause.

  “Do you want the lid up?” Rohan asked, aware Diane had upset Charlotte. Which meant she had upset him, too. Anyone would think he’d been sleeping with Diane, so apparent was her jealousy.

  “Not right up,” Charlotte said. “I don’t want to rocket my audience out of the room.” Spacious as the Drawing Room was, this was a nine-foot concert grand.

  “This just gets better and better!” Sam exclaimed, settling onto one of the sofas beside his girlfriend and taking her hand. He was blown away by the magnificence of Riverbend. For that matter blown away by the beautiful daughter of the former owner. There was quite a story there.

  “I’m a little out of practice,” Charlotte turned on the long piano seat to confess. “I’ve chosen the lovely ‘Levitski Waltz’. You may not know the name, but I’m sure you will know the melody, and a couple of shortish pieces from Albéniz’s Suite Española.”

  “Olé!” Irrepressible Sam essayed a burst of flamenco clapping. Rohan’s Charlotte was simply sensational. Why not? So was his boss.

  Charlotte waited until they were all seated comfortably, Rohan at their centre. Then she turned back to the Steinway. She was certain Rohan would have had it tuned to perfect pitch after it had been shifted into the house. To be on the safe side she made a short exploration of the beautiful instrument’s dynamics.

  “What the hell is she doing?” Diane had to ask the question, feeling a stab of dismay. She wasn’t into classical music. She fluffed out her shiny bob. “Is that it?” she whispered to the young woman beside her.

  “Get real!” was the astonished response. “Charlotte is just warming up.”

  “Yeah—I was just having a little joke,” said Diane, trying to prove she was as clued-up as the rest of them. She knew Rohan loved classical music. She had seen many of his CDs. Piano, violin, opera singers, symphony orchestras. You name it. Difficult when she had a passion for rock. Something hot!

  When at last the beautiful, talented Mrs Prescott’s little recital came to an end Diane muttered to herself, “Thank you, God!” She felt sure Charlotte had been showing off. Closed eyes. Bowed head. That business with her raised hands. Showing off. The waltz hadn’t been too bad. But she’d had no compulsion to tap her toes at the Spanish numbers. Needless to say that smart alec Sam the sycophant had. It had really pained her to mark the expression on Rohan’s handsome face. It suggested he had been transported to some celestial plain. Okay, he adored classical music. Probably that was his only fault.

  The party broke up around twelve-thirty. Rohan’s guests started to make their way upstairs, having told Charlotte how much they’d enjoyed meeting her and congratulating her on her lovely performance at the piano. Rohan’s
Charlotte was a true musician.

  Last in line, Diane bit her lip so hard she very nearly drew blood. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Charlotte?” she said, with a bright hostess look.

  “Very much so.” Charlotte smiled. “I must congratulate you on arranging everything so beautifully, Diane.”

  “All in a day’s work!” Diane’s expression turned suitably modest. “I’ll say goodnight, then. Will we be seeing you tomorrow?” It wasn’t as though the Prescott woman didn’t have plenty of time to squander, she thought.

  “I doubt it,” Charlotte replied lightly. “Goodnight, Diane.”

  “Goodnight.” Diane revved up a smile even though she was so angry. “Goodnight, Rohan.”

  God, he had to be the sexiest man on the planet. Maybe too sexy for his own good? She had an overwhelming urge to grab him and press him to her throbbing bosom. She had convinced herself she was worthy of Rohan Costello, although she knew he came with a warning. This was a guy who broke hearts. Not intentionally, was the word. But he hadn’t been serious about any one of the highly attractive young women he had dated in the past. It distressed her terribly to have Charlotte Prescott, the widow, re-emerge.

  Rohan gave her the smile she adored. Did he have any idea how sexy he was? “Goodnight, Diane. Everything went very well.”

  “Why, thank you!” Diane saw herself as the very image of indefatigable efficiency. She waggled her fingers, then started to move off towards the grand staircase, carrying the heavy weight of jealousy. She paused and turned back for a moment, focusing her gaze on Charlotte. “Look, why don’t we catch up some time, Charlotte?” she suggested, making it sound as though they had hit it off wonderfully well. Kindred spirits, as it were.

  “You want to keep her under observation?” Rohan asked suavely.

  Diane wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not. Rohan was such a man of mystery.

  Charlotte was kinder. “I’ll keep it in mind, Diane.”